


Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by betterrecieved



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betterrecieved/pseuds/betterrecieved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I started this as a Nixus fic for anon but it turned into this.  Will probably end up Nixus?  Dunno tbh.  But I kinda wanted to explore what if Nasir’s character flaw of being a lil fast-azz turned up way earlier…Unbeta’d. Random.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Agron’s hard reason does not sway Nasir’s resolute conviction - it is Agron’s soothing palm against his face (first loving touch from a man in his life, and his life has felt so long, so flat, so vast with lack that Nasir has never even thought a man’s hand could feel like this) that makes Nasir’s heart pound and his head nod in agreement.

Yet when Crixus stares down at Nasir with flat granite gaze softened enough for Nasir to meet his eyes - when Crixus looks at him - Nasir can hold back nothing.

*

When Crixus returns from mines he is broken, but not more broken than dead tan-skinned woman in his arms. Her beauty is apparent even in graying pallor of death, her large blue-filmed eyes and high-boned face: Naevia. 

And Nasir thinks: I wanted only to - what had he wanted? To see proof in the rebellion’s posturing, happy resolution of Spartacus’ high-handed hopes?

Time and gentle Favonius’ winds would have snuffed out all flames, he realizes belatedly, even Crixus’ howling conflagration of grief.

*

"Apologies," Nasir quavers when he can find his voice. His tongue tastes once more of acrid ash, relic of short-lived days as scullery boy before his beauty bloomed and Chadara appeared to bathe him for dominus’ bedchambers. "Had I known…" 

Crixus, thick bullish man - whose strength is such that though Nasir’s eyes flashed under Crixus’ violent touch, his stomach roiled with ice - looks away into far distance beyond temple camp.

Then Crixus turns, stares at him so blankly and for so long that Nasir forces himself not to take step backward, longs for man like Agron’s simple directness. 

"No apologies are required." Crixus’ voice is like smooth-edged gravel, no longer rough with nightly cries of renewed grief. Then once more he turns away, unmistakably dismissing of Nasir from his thoughts and presence.

"How is your wound?" Crixus asks. 

"It is - I am healing." Nasir’s eyes widen when Crixus raises his hand, strokes strand of hair from Nasir’s hot face.

"Gratitude," Crixus says.

When Crixus stalks away like muscled wild cat, Nasir stands alone in temple hall, breathing hard.

*

Before Nasir left for mines, Agron pursued him not with doggedness exactly, but smug leisurely assurance that let Nasir speechless, scattering bright red petals of pleasure like full-blown rose. 

On Nasir’s return, big hand cupping his chin is comfort holding his head above the river of death, sight of Agron’s face last reassuring sight before Nasir’s swimming vision dims, .

*

"This time you stay, and I go,” Agron hushes, bending his tall imposing frame so that Nasir’s head swims, his heart drums to shut out all noise save Agron’s soft command. But Agron’s lips only graze his forehead, a fond ghosted kiss like Nasir’s long-gone brother’s parting touch.

*

There is now certain reserve in Agron, who once leered at him as a man gently goads blushing nerve-ridden virgin, intent on seeing him to bedchambers.

Chadara strokes his arm when he holds back bitter tears at loss of Agron’s affections.

"His regard for you is not broken, but he proceeds now with caution. Your eyes fall often upon another, with intent easy enough to fathom. Agron possess eyes as well, and for all of his bluster I would not venture to call him fool."

She holds pink ruffled dress looted from Roman villa to her body, regards herself in mirror.

"I do not know what you speak of," Nasir hisses. "Nor why you speak so tiresomely of men. Fucking dress is ugly."

"I only give voice to your own thoughts," Chadara smirks. "And your thoughts fall often to Crixus.”

Nasir stiffens. “Crixus is man broken, and myself cause of his pain.” To say Crixus’ name aloud makes his stomach roil as if swarm of vicious wasps gathered inside him . “My eyes fall upon him only in pity and self-reproach.”

"You are not to blame, nor does he hold you in contempt. He himself does not yet know it, but he soon will be kissing you. " Chadara holds up shimmering blue gown. "This one or the emerald?"

"Emerald," Nasir sighs. "Color compliments your eyes."

*

In deepest star-lit night at rebel camp, guarded on all sides not from escape, but from undesired entry, no man can reach Nasir’s thoughts or press open his thighs.

Nasir can be, he can luxuriate in silence, can think beyond simple fox-like reaction to slavering predator for first time in his life. 

Yet for all that his thoughts seem so simple:

No man has ever cupped his face, made his knees quiver and his head nod in agreement with anything, anything.

No man has ever been so beautiful as Crixus, slumped heartbroken in temple hall, lost in soul-desiccating grief.

Nasir has never before wanted anything before except for his brother and hot scalding baths after nights with his dominus.

He wonders why it is that now he wants everything:

Freedom like frozen winter air suffusing his chest, touch like no touch he has ever felt, torturous against his unloved, soiled skin, and above all the love of a man, freedom to touch and love and love, all of the love that he can get, and even more love.

*

When planned camp raid comes down, Lugo’s head nods and Nasir is plucked from atop wall guarding camp.

Amidst general uproar of admonishment Nasir stands silent and shamed.

He has done everything in his power - for as long as his memory extends - to avoid notice, and now many eyes fall accusingly upon him.

But Crixus, standing upon temple stair, only shrugs: “Lazy German fuck Lugo fell to slumber. Boy was not at fault.”

Agron stands among his protesting countrymen, so close by that Nasir longs to reach out his hand and stroke the big man’s scarred sun-baked skin. “I stand in agreement with fucking Gaul. Nasir did his duty as well as he could. Fault does not lie with him.”

And though the Germans scowl, none among the throng ventures to disagree when Gaul and German gladiators stand united.

Nasir feels stare boring into his flushed face and looks up to find Spartacus - man whose regard he longs to earn, whose mercy he is determined to repay in faithful service - squinting down at him with measuring look.

*

"Sword is too heavy for him, and combined with shield’s weight he cannot fight with ease," Agron argues. "He is not of a size to fight in this style."

"He will grow used to it soon enough, as I once did." Holding his own gladius and shield easily in one hand, Crixus takes up weapons from ground where Nasir had discarded them in frustration. "He has spark of fighter in him, but he must possess skill also."

"I would not have him remain ungainly in battle only to be run through again by fucking Roman!" Agron spits, but steps back to allow Nasir and Crixus room to spar.

Nasir scowls, grasping weapons from Crixus’ insistent hands. Sword is impossible weight in Nasir’s exhausted arm, shield like dreadful confusing anchor preventing him from quick movement.

"He will learn," Crixus pronounces after he knocks Nasir to ground almost immediately.

"He is tired,” Nasir snaps at them both. “Why must weapons be forged from fucking lead? I would try my hand again at dagger, you both agree I excel at that.”

Crixus extends his callused hand to aid Nasir upright, and Nasir is flooded through with warmth as he briefly holds tight to Crixus’ hand. 

"And you excel also at being small enough to overpower," Agron dismisses. 

Nasir blinks hard, forces himself not to shrink from Agron’s harsh wordsl.

"You must have weapon light enough to wield," Agron continues more gently, coupling words with light stroke of his knuckles to Nasir’s flushed cheek. "Yet it must be long enough to - I know, give him spear!"

After hours spent hefting gladius, long spear is like feather in Nasir’s hand, and both gladiators claim exhaustion before Nasir can be goaded to take rest from training with new weapon.

*

When Chadara is dead there is no comfort for Nasir, not even in Crixus’ strong arm winding around his shoulders, nor in Agron’s hand grasping his chin, lips pressing to his wet cheek.

And then there is Donar.

"You must choose," Donar tells him under pretense of sparring while Agron and Crixus are engaged in talks with Spartacus. "I will not see Agron fall to ruin over silly boy."

Nasir bristles. “I do not fucking know wha-“

But Donar only whacks Nasir’s thigh with flat of sword. Nasir falls cursing onto his ass, mouth hung open in outrage while Donar calmly ambles away.


End file.
